“Aye.” He wanted to profess his love for her. E’en to formally ask for her hand in marriage. Callum had known since the first time he set eyes on Frida de Neville that she was the woman for him—however many obstacles lay in his path. But when hewanted to swear his devotion, the words dried up on his tongue. How could he promise her a future whilst she believed him a true Englishman?
Whilst my father and my lord wait for me to assassinate Frida’s brother?
All he could do was squeeze her fingers in a show of affection as the cold light of day brought these complications into terrible focus.
It mattered not how strong the innate connection might be; they could not begin a life together based on lies.
He would have to tell her the truth, however hard that might be.
The realisation brought a flood of relief, for this at last was a way forward and Callum had never shied away from a challenge. But first they must return to the hall, to a warm fire and freshly-baked bread from the kitchen. His stomach rumbled at the prospect and Frida smilingly flung her cloak about her shoulders.
“Let us depart.”
At first, they walked hand in hand, but their progress was slow and arduous, especially as Callum also carried Gertrude, tucked under one arm. The snow was deep and their boots sank on every step, but the sun shone brightly and icicles twinkled from the trees. Even a Scotsman could not deny the beauty of this English morn. All around them, the hills and valleys were blanketed in white. It was a world transformed and anything seemed possible.
The downhill slope was easier. Frida walked ahead, glancing back occasionally with a smile more dazzling than the reflected sunlight. Callum’s worries circled and swooped like the birds flying in the blue sky above them, but he took courage from Frida’s evident happiness.
Once they had eaten and Frida had warmed herself by the fire, he would tell her all of his tale. There would be no more lies. No more half-truths.
But a strange sight greeted them as they turned the corner to the main gates. The snow coming up from the village was not smooth and sparkling, but trampled and run through with mud and dirt, as if many men and horses had passed through. Frida turned towards him, a frown flickering across her brow.
“It looks like we have visitors.”
“Aye,” Callum agreed reflexively, his heart already sinking.
Whoever these visitors were, they were unlikely to bring good news.
They followed the rutted path through the gates, the uniformed guards standing aside to let them pass with a respectful nod to the lady of the house. Callum walked behind her, unable to shake the feeling that he was already a condemned man. Was it his imagination, or did the guards avoid his gaze e’en more so than usual?
Moments earlier, he had contemplated a roaring fire and the comfort of food and drink. Now he glanced towards the barn where Arlo and Andrew had been sleeping, wondering if they were safe.
Are they still alive?
He thought of the daggers secreted beneath his pallet. So out of reach he may as well have given them over to Frida. Then he scolded himself for such drama. What was he anticipating? That the Earl of Wolvesley had ridden out to arrest him?
All was quiet as they passed through the outer courtyard. Callum felt his legs become more and more leaden with every step closer to the hall. Frida, in contrast, walked steadily, despite her ankle. Her head was high, her expression curious. No fears besieged her.
But even Frida’s step faltered as they turned the corner and encountered two lines of armed and mounted men, swords glinting in the sunlight, horses’ ears pricked towards them.
Frida put a hand to her heart. Callum wanted to go to her, so she might lean against him, but he felt frozen to the spot.
“What is this?” she asked.
The central horseman urged his horse forwards and removed his helm. All of Callum’s fears solidified as he recognised the flaxen curls and handsome features of Tristan de Neville.
But Tristan did not spare Callum so much as a glance. His gaze was fully on his sister as he gestured his men forwards.
“Seize the Scot,” Tristan ordered.
Chapter Fifteen
The two siblingsfaced one another across the great hall while Frida fought to keep her spiralling emotions in check. When she had awoken that morn, she had thought herself a woman in love. Now she was a woman under siege, and from her own brother at that. A fire flickered in the grate but she had no desire to move closer to its blaze, nor to hold her damp cloak to the warmth. Her hunger and thirst were forgotten as well.
Tristan had all the height and bearing of their father; the same thatch of thick blond hair, which curled just above his powerful shoulders, and the same piercing blue eyes. Even his sworn enemy would call him handsome. But it wasn’t just good looks that drew people to the future Earl of Wolvesley; energy and charisma radiated from him. His bright smile was contagious; his determination to succeed was a key component in cementing his mighty reputation.
Little more than a year separated their births, and Frida had always thought that she would trust her brother with her life. Now she wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. She was no longer cold from her night in the shepherd’s hut; her whole being burned to be heard.
“It is no crime to be of Scottish descent,” she stated into the vast room, which was empty but for the two of them. Jonah was keeping his distance, though she had no doubt he would be listening nearby. Mirrie, who hated conflict, had melted away to the kitchens.
